I remember the day. It was September 9, a Tuesday, when he left me. One minute we were gallivanting on Laguna Beach like movie stars in 1930s swimsuits – and then, the screen went dark and I awoke in a Kafka novel.“I’m done, Dani,” he said, as my hand trembled beneath his. And then he kissed me goodbye. I couldn’t help but watch him walk away, despite the pain, and then I slept for 13 hours.
Our break-up wasn’t just the end of love; it was the loss of a dream. I mourned the wedding we’d never have, our unborn babies with his curly blonde hair and piercing green eyes, and the antique rocking chairs we’d have on our country house patio, in which we’d spend the twilight of our lives talking about literature and life and the miracle of universal health care.
My dream was so powerful, it brought us back together.But I couldn’t forgive him for leaving. “If you loved me, how could you?” I’d fuss. I held regular princess tantrums to punish him. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it’d happen again; our trust had been shattered and I knew he was capable of giving up.
As we moved forward, his kisses reassured me. His willingness to try again renewed my faith in the possible.
Forgiveness is your heart letting go. It’s finding freedom in fixing what’s broken, or even believing that you can. And sometimes, it doesn’t happen in a swift moment; it’s something you do over and over, every day.
Danielle Berrin writes for the Jewish Journal of Los Angeles. Her blog can be found at www.jewishjournal.com/hollywoodjew
